The Parting Glass
by honeyjadecladdagh
Summary: An old man sits and reflects on his life. A short story based on the song "The Parting Glass" by George Donaldson of Celtic Thunder. I do not own the song.


The old man sat in his chair at the table in his little English home. It was half past eleven on a warm summer night. The sky was darker than smeared charcoal, adorned with countless silver stars, giving it the appearance of a curtain of diamonds and the full moon cast a pale light over everything in sight as it hung like a Chinese lantern in the centre of the sky.

The dining room in which the old man sat was cosy and inviting. It was dimly lit but just light enough to see. The kitchen was to his left, a room that had received several upgrades over the years, especially where technology was concerned (you've got to move with the times, you know!). In front of him, a set of opaque French doors opened out into the living room, the site of many merry gatherings. Lace curtains hung on either side of the large window on his right and a vase filled with artificial blue roses sat perched on the windowsill.

A bottle of whiskey, his favourite beverage, sat on the table before him. The man reached over and poured himself yet another glass of the golden liquid, taking care not to spill any on the spotless white tablecloth. His wife would go ballistic if she saw that her nice clean cloth was dirty. She always meant business when it came to cleanliness, bless her! The man took a grateful swig of his drink, then gazed into the now half-empty glass. He had done a lot of drinking in his time. So much so that he couldn't even remember the first time he had tried alcohol. As he stared at the remaining few millimetres of his drink resting in the glass clutched between his thumb and forefingers, a surge of memories from years past came flooding back to him like a tidal wave.

 _Of all the money that e'er I had,_

 _I spent it in good company._

 _And all the harm that e'er I've done,_

 _alas, it was to none but me._

 _And all I've done for want of wit,_

 _to memory now, I can't recall._

 _So fill to me the parting glass._

 _Goodnight and joy be with you all._

The man had always been a sensible character. Hard-working and honest in every way. This was all thanks to his parents. They had raised him to be a faithful, law-abiding citizen. To appreciate everything life gave him. "If you want something, you have to earn it." That was the slogan he was brought up on and was instilled in him like oxygen. And he took it to heart. He worked hard to make his parents proud and chose his friends wisely. As well as this, he was also a gentle and kind soul, willing to carry the burdens of anyone and everyone. That was what made him loved by all. People could open their hearts to him whenever they wished; he always had a ready ear. And he was certainly never dull company. He could always be relied on to bring a smile to your face when you were in need of cheering up. There was no denying it, he was every inch of selfless, sincere and sympathetic.

 _Of all the comrades that e'er I've had,_

 _they're sorry for my going-away._

 _And all the sweethearts that e'er I've had,_

 _they'd wish me one more day to stay._

 _But since it falls unto my lot,_

 _that I should rise and you should not,_

 _I'll gently rise and I'll softly call:_

 _"Goodnight and joy be with you all!"_

An old wooden cabinet sat in the living room, proudly displaying a collection of photographs through their glass doors. Slowly, the man rose from his seat and approached the cabinet. He opened it and gazed at each photograph fondly as even more memories filled his mind. There were pictures of him and his wife on their wedding day, his daughter and her fellow rockabilly's, his granddaughter on the day she was born. He smiled as this picture met his eyes. His granddaughter must be about five years old now. Goodness, how time flies!

But there was one picture in particular that brought tears to his eyes. It was a black and white photograph from 1941 showing him and his two brothers, George and Eric, in their RAF uniforms, all with big smiles on their faces. Exactly one week after that picture was taken, George's plane was shot down in an air battle, killing him instantly. After George's death, Eric was never the same. When the war ended, he took up drinking to drown his sorrows, a habit that caught up with him in 1982 when his liver caved in. The loss of his brothers was heart-breaking for the old man. They had always been close. They went everywhere together. They had even joined the army together.

There were many pictures from his army days. Groups of young men in soldier's gear, all beaming widely, proud to be serving their king and country. Only a very few of them had made it this far. Most had their lives claimed by Nazi bullets and bombs. All of whom were sorely missed.

 _A man may drink and not be drunk._

 _A man may fight and not be slain._

 _A man may court a pretty girl,_

 _and perhaps be welcomed back again._

 _But since it has so ought to be,_

 _by a time to rise and a time to fall,_

 _come fill to me the parting glass._

 _Goodnight and joy be with you all._

Yes, the old man had certainly had quite the life. He had fought alongside some of the bravest men he'd ever known and, against all odds, had miraculously lived to tell the tale. He had been blessed with the joy that was his wonderful family and he wouldn't have traded them for the world. He sighed. What a life.

The clock on the mantelpiece chimed. He checked his watch. Midnight. At last, the moment had come. A knock on the door brought a smile to his lips. Right on time. He walked to the front door and answered it. He didn't need to ask who was there. He already knew who it was. When he opened the door, he was greeted by two grinning faces. Faces that he had waited years to be reunited with.

The man smiled. "George, Eric, long time no see."

"Too long" George chuckled, stepping forward to hug his brother, followed closely by Eric.

"You ready to go, then?" Eric asked when they parted.

The man nodded. "Ready as I'll ever be."

With smiles still plastered across their faces, the three men left the house and walked out into the street. When they reached the pavement, the old man turned and looked back at the house, tears blinding his vision. Eric wrapped an arm around his shoulders. "They'll be alright. You can take my word for it."

The old man wiped his eyes and looked up at his brother. "That's good enough for me" he whispered.

"Come on" said George. "They're all waiting for us."

And so the three brothers set off down the road, laughing and chattering away like old friends, slowly fading with each step they took. When they reached the end of their street, they turned around for one last look at the place that had been their home for many years. Raising a hand in farewell, the men softly called out to anyone who may be listening "Goodnight, and joy be with you all."

Then, in the blink of an eye, the last glimpse of them faded into oblivion and was gone.


End file.
